By Any Other Name
by Abrae
Summary: John insists he's not gay; he's been telling himself this for years.
1. Chapter 1

_Hong Kong, July 1994_

Yet another sunny, steamy day.

John's been leaning against the rusty, paint-chipped bus stop post for nearly fifteen minutes now, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat, but Anthony's long since given up and retreated to squat against a concrete wall only just covered in a sliver of shade.

The air is pungent with the sickening smell of durian. Any stronger and it would be overwhelming.

John checks his watch for the twelfth time, then scans the road again, using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he looks. A creaky truck covered in striped plastic tarp rattles past, and when the young men riding in the back spy the two fifteen year-old _gweilo_, they shout out, "_Diu lei lo mo!_" and then laugh together.

John frowns and turns away; he knows what the words mean (though he thinks maybe Mum and Dad wouldn't), and he's seen enough of the way things work here - sunburned housewives with leathery skin ordering elderly Chinese men about - not to begrudge them. But it doesn't soften their sting.

He looks up the road once more and, finding it utterly empty of transport, sighs and trudges over to the shade, where Anthony sits fanning himself with a film pamphlet snagged from the theatre. He crouches next to the other boy (he's been trying to perfect that flat-footed squat the Chinese men do, but he can't quite get his heels on the ground) and snatches the paper from his hands.

"Prat," Anthony grumbles as John quickly fans his face, then hands it back. When his legs begin to ache, he settles on the ground and leans back, delicately resting his head against the baking concrete, his forearms propped on bent knees. They sit this way for several minutes, Anthony leaning forward, lost in his thoughts, and John lost in the sandy blond of Anthony's hair.

Then, as though sensing John's gaze, Anthony turns quickly to face him.

John averts his eyes, but it's too late. Anthony's narrow slightly and John turns his face away, thankful that the blush rising to his cheeks is masked under skin already reddened by the sun.

"Did you hear about Richardson?" Anthony asks after a moment.

"The corporal?" John asks quietly, knowing the answer and hearing the real question beneath the words. "What about him?"

"My Dad says he's a bloody shirt lifter, that's what," Anthony says with a shake of his head. "Got caught with one of the Chinese drivers."

John keeps his eyes trained on the road, searching (desperately) for the number six bus.

"'s not normal, y'know," Anthony continues, and John gives a noncommittal hum. His own Dad's been all too clear on the subject (_If anyone talks to you in the loo, John, you punch him in the face and get the hell out of there, understand?_), and he's not about to disagree.

It was stupid, he thinks, to get caught looking - and what's a look, anyway? It's not like it means anything.

He turns to Anthony and finds a warning in his eyes. But before he can say anything more, John spies the blue double-decker bus that will return them to Stanley Fort barrelling down the road behind him. John climbs to his feet and unthinkingly holds out his hand to Anthony. The other boy stares at it for a moment, then pointedly rises on his own.

John's hand drops to his side.

He thinks they won't be spending much time together anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hong Kong, June 1995_

Their lips touch, and all John can feel is a relief so profound, his knees would buckle if he weren't already sitting down.

As kisses go, it's probably not the best. His lips are dry and hers are a bit lifeless; more peck than passion. But it's _different_ with another person, unexpected and almost daring.

(Safe, in a way that lets him know he's normal for wanting it.)

She pulls away, and he takes a moment to appreciate the sight she makes: eyes closed, a light smile flitting over her lip-glossed mouth, her blonde hair tossing in the humid breeze. He licks his lips and can taste the flavour (strawberry) she's left behind.

"That's nice," she murmurs, opening her eyes. Brown, flecked with bits of gold.

"Mm," he agrees, turning to look out at the dim lights cast by the fishing boats out in the bay. Her hand is warm in his; sweaty, but not clammy, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. The sea salt is heavy in the air tonight. He breathes it in, imprinting it on his memory.

"You're going back, then?" Ellie asks after a moment, and John nods.

"End of term. Tour's up this year, and Dad wants me to take my A-levels back home. You?"

Ellie sighs, gazing out over the water. "I've been here half my life," she says softly. There's a faraway look in her eyes that John can't read. "I'll probably go back for uni, but Mum and Dad'll stay here, I expect. Dunno for how much longer, though."

"Maybe I'll see you there?" John says hopefully. "Back home? It's only a couple more years."

Ellie gives him a sad sort of smile; not pitying, exactly, but imbued with some secret knowledge he can't grasp. A nameless ache blossoms in his chest, and he turns his face away so she won't see the twist of his mouth.

"It never works that way," she says. "People always say they'll keep in touch, but... " Ellie shakes her head. "I've even gone to see a friend or two when we've been back on leave. It's never the same."

He nods in resigned agreement, the fringe of his hair falling into his eyes, and Ellie scoots closer on the bench. She leans forward and looks up into his downturned face.

"Doesn't mean it has to end right now, though, does it?" she says with a smile, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. John turns towards her, and he lifts his hands to her thin shoulders. He likes the feel of them under his fingers - the hard knots of bone and the soft expanse of skin. He tentatively strokes his thumbs over her clavicles, then leans close.

The second kiss is better. They're both getting the hang of it now - a wetter brushing of lips and, there at the end, the taste of something _more_ that has his trousers tightening just a bit.

And if it isn't earth-shattering, it's a heady distraction from Typhoon Harry wreaking havoc at home; from the all the upheaval of the impending move. From having to start over again.


	3. Chapter 3

_Dale Barracks, Chester, December 1999_

As bad as the yelling had got just before Dad was deployed to the Falklands, John thinks this deafening silence might actually be worse. Night after night they sit at the table like bandits at a standoff, each eyeing the others as though to anticipate which will be first to disrupt the tenuous tea-time peace.

John doesn't hate Harry. But he does resent her and the way she's taken their family and smashed it to pieces with her need to be different. To stand out.

He gets it. That this is what she wants; or, at least, what she thinks she wants. And John wants her to be happy, but how serious can it be? It's not like it's _real_. She's just experimenting, John thinks, but even after she's figured out it's a bloke she's been after all along, all this unbearable silence will still be here, filling the gaps between them.

He sighs and moves a bit of the food on his plate around. A clink and clatter of metal on ceramic. A soft gulp of water traveling down his mother's throat. The soft stab of a fork into pork chops and carrots. A huff of irritation from Harry.

John just keeps his head down.

There's a knock on the door and Harry's eyes light up - in pleasure or perversity, John can't say. Mum looks to the door with a pained expression, then back at Harry with pleading eyes, but Harry - oblivious to everything but herself, as always - jumps to her feet and answers it.

The girl on the other side is tall - not like Harry, who's got the short Watson genes. Her hair is cut short and spiky, and she wears a plain white t-shirt under her denim jacket. A heavily eye-shadowed gaze skirts disinterestedly over Mum and John, then Harry tugs on her jacket to pull her into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

Mum sighs, cradling her forehead in her hand, and in that moment, John understands with a rare clarity that nothing is worth this. Not happiness, not 'finding yourself' or whatever it is his sister is doing. Harry would say he's a mummy's boy, and maybe he is. But he hates to see Mum's suffering - that weary look of forfeited dreams that he should be too young to recognise. Were it him, he'd do _anything_ to avoid being the cause of it.

John just wishes Harry were the same.

Mum looks up and her eyes catch John's. He fights the urge to look away.

After a moment, he gives her a tight smile and shrugs. Mum shakes her head and they set to eating again, each pointedly ignoring the muffled squeals of laughter coming from behind Harry's closed door.


	4. Chapter 4

_London, December 2002_

"John!"

Mike calls out across the deserted library and John looks up, bleary-eyed, to discover that it's gone dark outside. He sits back in his worn wooden chair and stretches, rolling his neck from side to side, rubbing his eyes. He opens them in time to see Mike drop his backpack on the tabletop and lean against it, arms crossed over his chest.

"Don't you ever take a night off?" Mike asks, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Especially this close to the hols. 's not right."

"This cardiovascular stuff isn't going to learn itself, you know,' John replies, laying his hand on the open textbook before him. "Not all of us can get it on the first go."

Mike leans over abruptly and closes the book's cover, just missing John's hand as he snatches it away.

"What'd you do that for?" John complains, but Mike just turns to stuff the book into John's canvas bag, snapping it shut and handing it to his friend.

"All work and no play, Johnny-boy," he replies with a grin. "Let's go grab a pint and then get you home, shall we?" Taking up his own backpack, Mike slings it over his shoulder and starts down the aisle, throwing a glance back over his shoulder.

"Come along, then. It'll be fun," he says. John stands, stretches again, and picks up his bag with a deep sigh.

"Where're we going?" he asks as he catches up, and Mike just laughs.

"New place," Mike says. "You'll like it."

A ten-minute walk later and they're pushing past a burly doorman who's busy tossing out a skinny boy with a shock of black curls. They enter to the thunder of a deep bass beat, and John stops dead in his tracks, gawking wide-eyed at the gyrating press of bodies before him.

Normally, when Mike suggests a pint or two, they end up at the pub near John's flat, soberly sipping lager and listening to the one-upmanship of the red-faced regulars. By contrast, this is a sensory smorgasbord that's almost too much - too much heat, too much noise, and far too much touching.

Mike raises an eyebrow as he catches John's eye.

"What did I tell you? Better than those books."

John just stares at him incredulously.

They wind their way through the press of bodies to a far table. It's a bit quieter here - still deafening, but at least they can hold a conversation. Yet, looking out over the crowd, John finds himself completely speechless. He doesn't fit in here, with his corduroy trousers and woollen jumper. Neither does Mike, for that matter, but he seems never to care about such things. It's something John envies, this comfort with himself; John's never been at home in his body.

"Where'd you hear about this place?" John almost shouts over the din.

"Time Out," Mike replies. "Thought we could use a change of scenery."

A weary waitress brings them the beers they've ordered on the way in, and Mike lifts his glass.

"Cheers," he says, taking a swig, and John returns the gesture, settling back to watch the crowd, far happier in the role of observer than he ever would be as participant.

The only dancing he's ever done has been at family weddings; a short boy all overbite and awkward shuffling and leading old biddies about. This is new - alien, really - and his palms sweat a bit as he takes it all in. Firm bodies gyrating together, glitter and shimmer and silky hair, and it's so (_fucking terrifying_) spectacular that he has to look away.

At Mike, nodding beatifically at him across the table, an irritatingly knowing glint in his eyes.

At the bartender, smart in his crisp black shirt and carefully gelled hair. John's heart skips a beat at the sight of long fingers deftly flitting between bottles and glasses, but he ignores it, taking another drink of his beer. Looks away.

At the girls dancing together in their stringy tops and tight skirts. Beautiful, but for a desperate flamboyance that makes John inexplicably nervous. He looks away.

At the dark-haired kid, gangly and a bit spotty, who's managed to get in after all and is now impossibly holding court with cigarette in one hand, a glass of something in the other, and an open-mouthed gaggle of girls listening raptly to whatever it is he's pontificating about. A boyfriend or three, glaring daggers at him from the sidelines.

John lets out an involuntary laugh at the sight, catching the boy's suddenly narrow-eyed attention for an arresting moment. Mike gives him a quizzical look.

"Nothing," John says, shaking his head and looking away, washing away his smile with another swig of beer.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I finally saw a copy of John's CV from Blind Banker and have adjusted dates accordingly. Doesn't change the story, but will be a huge help in the chapter I'm working on now. My apologies for any confusion._  
_

* * *

_London, April 2004_

After years of study made all the more difficult by John's general disinterest in learning by the book, he's now nearly at the end of his FY1 year.

He'd thought the hardest part would be A&E, only to find that on-call is much more of a challenge: thirteen-hour shifts and little supervision. Even so, it takes only a few months and comparatively few mistakes to get his footing; the mistakes are manageable, and _manage_ them he does.

John's a bit surprised to find that there's something about the wards that brings his talents to the fore, and he looks forward to those nights when he's running from bed to bed, flipping through charts, making connections and diagnoses, understanding almost intuitively what needs to be done and who needs to be doing it. John may be small, but when he's on the ward he speaks with an authority that makes people stop and pay attention. Something else he got from his Dad, he reckons.

It takes even less time to discover that he _likes_ the thrill of risk that comes with a tricky diagnosis; likes the adrenaline rush that accompanies an emergency. They bring him alive in a way he never has been before. They make him something more than the quiet homebody he seems - something interesting. Something... electric.

Tonight, though, is one of the slowest shifts he's had to date.

He puts the finishing touches on some stitches (cooking accident, to judge from the non-stop commentary coming from the bloke's girlfriend), then sends the pair (young, working-class, obviously in lust, if not love) on their way. John quietly gathers up his paperwork and starts to follow down the corridor. When he looks up, he catches them sharing a kiss.

And not just any kiss; this is a good one - too good, it might be said, for public consumption. A press of bodies against a far wall. A bit of tongue, a nip, a growl, and clutching hands.

John reddens and coughs softly into a curled fist. They look up - she in embarrassment, he with a lascivious grin - and John gives them his soon-to-be-patented 'behave, now' look. The boy rolls his eyes and takes the girl by the hand, dragging her out into the night with him.

And John, watching them go, wants what they have. That heedless passion, lips against his own. Skin against warm, welcoming skin, telling him that, for now, he's not alone in the world. John's pushed away the longing for so many years that it's got lost under a sensible face and worn shirts and faded jeans, and he doesn't know how to bring it out into the open. His body sends out no beacon; in the absence of a crisis he's simply plain, obscure John Watson, and there are nights spent alone in his bed when he thinks he may go mad from it.


	6. Chapter 6

_London, May 2006_

It's been unseasonably warm for a week.

John stretches a long piece of packaging tape over the seam of the last box, then lowers it carefully to the cardboard, flattening it out over the split. That done, he pauses to take a look around the flat that's been his home for four years. Even though he always looks forward to the novelty of a new place, this is the part of moving on that he hates. The ugly checked Oxfam armchair that had taken up half the lounge is gone, and with it much of the accidental warmth of the room. The walls echo with every step John takes, and he can hear clearly the distant clap of Gareth's feet as they climb the stairs leading to his door.

A day spent in Gareth's company has gone a long way to acclimating him to the other man's presence; but in the fifteen minutes he's been gone to Tesco, John's nervousness has returned.

They've spent the day overwarm and under-dressed, John in a plain white vest and Gareth in nothing but his jeans. John's noticed Gareth casually brushing up against him with slowly increasing frequency, and - he doesn't know, exactly, what he's thinking when he starts responding in kind, leaning just a bit too close to see how much room is left in Gareth's open box; letting his eyes travel over the gently curved plane of Gareth's back. He's free to look (this time, a whisper in back of his mind), but there's no reason why he should.

Except... a blind, thoughtless _want_ so overwhelming he can taste it.

The door bangs open unceremoniously and Gareth, a bag of sandwiches and crisps in hand, bursts through with a cheerful, "Here we are." He puts the bag down on the now-cleared kitchen table and reaches in to hand John a cold lager, dripping with condensation.

"Ta," John says. He allows his fingers to brush lightly against Gareth's as he takes it, and Gareth reaches out with his now-empty hand to grasp John's wrist.

"What -" he begins, looking - panicked - up at his friend. But Gareth - whose dark brown hair has copper highlights in the light of the late afternoon sun, whose coffee coloured eyes are gentle as they seek out John's - takes the lager in his other hand and replaces it on the table. John's eyes follow the movement, then travel back up to meet Gareth's. His breath is coming in sudden, shallow pants and, he'd regret this, he would, but Gareth's head tilts and his eyebrows rise in a question, and all John can do is nod after a moment's hesitation, almost imperceptibly.

He expects a lunge - something masculine and aggressive - but Gareth simply lets his hand slide from John's wrist to tangle their fingers together, each soft stroke against John's skin more overwhelming than the last. He dips his head and John, eyes wide, cranes his neck to meet him halfway; their lips brush lightly, and all the world is reduced to this - this touch, this kiss, this moment.

When their mouths part, John murmurs into the scant space between them, "I'm not - I don't -" punctuating his words with a defeated sigh he can feel against Gareth's chest.

"I am," Gareth says, mercifully without condescension. "I do." He tugs at the hand he holds in his own and pulls John across the lounge and into the small bedroom. The furniture is gone, but the mattress remains on the floor; Gareth lowers himself on its edge, stretching out his legs before him, and John kneels between them on the warm wooden floor.

"I want... " he says. "I want... " he tries again, a little more vehemently this time, then screws his mouth in a tight knot, shaking his head in frustration and looking away to the empty corner of the room.

Gareth reaches forward and places a hand on John's nape, rubbing the short hair he finds there.

"Hey," he says, but John gives another angry shake of his head. Gareth lifts his hand to John's head, stroking his hair. "Hey," he says again, and John lets out another huff, raising his eyes to Gareth's.

"Are you sure?" Gareth asks.

"I don't. I don't know what - " John begins, wanting to explain that there's clearly something wrong with him, to be so _hungry_ yet unable to eat; but Gareth hears a different confession and draws John close, lightly pressing his lips to John's, nipping at them with teeth and tongue. He slowly coaxes them apart, and John finds himself succumbing to sensations that very nearly drown out the high-voltage hum of his doubts. He climbs onto the mattress with Gareth, crawling forward to lie next to him, savouring the feel of the hands that slip under his vest and pull it over his head. The swipe of Gareth's tongue over a nipple brings John down, panting so heavily he can feel it in the numbness of his hands. A nuzzle at his neck, a nibble at his ear, and John is gasping, grasping at Gareth's shoulders, Gareth's arms; and then his hair, as Gareth slides down his body to take John in his mouth.

John knew, but he didn't know how _good_ it would feel, how "good" doesn't even come close to describing the electric shock of mouth on exquisitely sensitive skin, could never explain why he's hoarse and heaving when he comes down Gareth's throat.

And cresting on the wake of his climax is the surety that this cannot happen again. It wars with John's wish - no, _need_ - to reciprocate somehow, though (not ready for that I can't) maybe with his hand, rather than his mouth. He rolls on his stomach and licks and bites as he's been tutored, and Gareth makes gratifyingly appreciative sounds. John reckons he must not be mucking it up too badly, but when he reaches down to take Gareth in hand, the angle is all wrong, and suddenly John doesn't have the first clue what he's doing. He grips Gareth as he would himself, and after an awkward moment or two, Gareth wraps his own hand around John's to show him the way. Gratitude wars with embarrassment, and both are canceled out by the relief that washes over John when Gareth comes.

The sky is a dusky blue now, the only light in John's bare bedroom that of the streetlights outside. The two men lie side by side, and when Gareth take's John's hand in his, John turns his head to look at him. Gareth brings John's hand to his lips, and (lost) John blurts out, "We probably shouldn't do this again."

Gareth stills. After a moment, he sits up and reaches over for his pants. They dress together in the dark silence.


	7. Chapter 7

_London, October 2010_

It's just begun to rain when Harry arrives at the cafe.

John's been waiting outside for nearly twenty minutes now, the hand wrapped around the handle of his cane tightening as the ache in his leg becomes a sharp pain he can't ignore. He's almost glad to see her, but one look at her bleary, blood-shot eyes - one whiff of the stale alcohol that clings to her clothes - and his goodwill withers away.

"Johnny," she says, preemptively defeated, as though she can read the battle she's fought and lost in John's eyes.

"Harry," he replies, a soft rebuke hiding behind her name. "Glad you could make it."

"Piss off," Harry says, but she walks around him to pull the door open, and he doesn't fail to notice that she holds it for him as he shuffles through. They order coffees at the counter; John makes sure to cover his with a plastic lid, as he's found out the hard way what happens when he limps with hot coffee in his free hand.

Once they've settled in their seats, Harry removes a mobile phone from the jacket she's draped over the back of her chair and lays it down on the table, sliding it towards John.

"Here," she says. "Don't be such a stranger."

John picks it up, experimentally presses a couple of buttons, then turns it over to find an inscription on the back. His eyes flick back up to Harry's face, but she's pointedly looking away.

"What happened with Clara?" he asks, and Harry shrugs.

"Wasn't working out."

"Wasn't working -" John leans across the table and, with a quick glance around, hisses quietly, "She's not your girlfriend, Harry, she's your _wife_. You can't just -"

Harry's eyes flash angrily. "Can't what, John? Leave? It didn't seem to bother you when you were the one doing it."

"That's not -" John begins, but Harry's not done.

"I buried him, John Watson, and where the hell were you? Mum's talked about nothing but you since he died. 'Hope Johnny's alright, Harry.' 'Have you heard from Johnny lately, Harry?'" She lets out an explosive sigh. "You just left, you dickhead, and I've had to pick up the pieces."

A small part of John wants to tell her it's about time she did. That it's only fair after the years of arguments and slammed doors she inflicted on them all. It's true what she says, though; he did leave and he hasn't been back in years. Calls home from time to time, but he stayed away from his father's funeral, and although he's been back for a few weeks now, he has yet to visit the facility where his mother now lives.

He doesn't want her to see him like this.

And it seems that there's something about being shot at - being _shot_ - that puts things in perspective, so instead of arguing the point, John simply asks, "How's she doing?"

Harry eyes him warily. "Same as always," she replies.

The minutes pass in silence, the only sound between them soft slurps of their coffee.

Then, abruptly, "Did it hurt?"

John lets out a humourless laugh and looks out the window. "Of course it hurt. I was shot."

"What're you going to do?" Harry asks, and that's the question, isn't it? What can he possibly do? It's not like he can stand for any length of time, and the tremor in his left hand makes even the simplest of everyday tasks that much more difficult.

And it's not just his body. John's never had that cocky confidence that separates the leaders from the led and, bereft of the things that gave some form to his otherwise shapeless sense of self, he has no idea who he even is anymore. John's paid the price for that fleeting sense of purpose and _definition_ that enemy fire lent him, and it's too high. He's gambled his future and lost.

"No idea," he answers with a grimace.

Harry snorts indelicately. "You could always get married. Start a family."

John knows she means it facetiously, but it strikes truer than the stray bullet that hit his shoulder, and his eyes fall to the cup in his hand.

It's a long-held fantasy of his, starting a family. He'd spent sun-baked afternoons in the too-still shelter of canvas and netting, leaning back and imagining the green, bucolic life he might build once his tour was up. A son and a daughter; a wife - pretty, but not beautiful, because why would someone beautiful ever look at him? She'd be sensible and staid, like his mum. Predictable, and her predictability would give his own life a stability that his has lacked for years.

But that's another of those dreams that the desert has dessicated.

John lifts his cup to his parched lips and takes one last sip. Then he looks Harry in the eye, the sharp glint in his own a bitter contrast to the tight smile it accompanies.

"Who would have me now?"


	8. Chapter 8

_London, January 2011_

All told, it's been a rather extraordinary evening. First, the meeting with Doctor John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, presently in the process of establishing residence at 221B Baker Street. Trust issues, he's been led to believe - difficulty making friends - and yet he stands before Mycroft insensitive to the temptations of a healthy bank account - why? It's possible his therapist has it wrong; it wouldn't be the only thing she's failed to observe about this diminutive puzzle of a man.

Or perhaps it's something more, something different that leaps out at Mycroft with all the subtlety of an oncoming train when he sees it. The second extraordinary occurrence of the evening: Sherlock Holmes is smiling.

Mycroft remembers a time when that smile, genuine and warm, belonged to him - remembers, almost to the day, when it transformed to something cynical and hard, and his heart, that cold, closed-off thing, gives a tight lurch at the sight.

John Watson has no idea what he's done, what terrible miracle he's wrought, and Mycroft finds himself wondering if he might succeed where Mycroft has failed. He truly does worry, constantly, about his Icarus; but perhaps this sturdy, steady man can keep him from soaring too high - too close to the burning sun, only to fall.

_London, March 2011_

It was supposed to have been a seduction.

All his perfect crimes, all leading to that one moment of revelation. And Sherlock would have seen the beauty of it, the symmetry, and he'd have appreciated it - appreciated Jim.

But now he can't even see Jim for that bland, boring doctor who misses all the obvious clues, misses _everything_ and gets in Jim's way. He crouches in the background, guarding his Sherlock with stupidly blind loyalty. He's a gnat, but Sherlock seems to like him, and Jim will always give Sherlock what he likes. Jim even has him gift-wrapped in sparkling strands of wire.

And Sherlock's surprised.

It's a naughty little trick he plays, sending the doctor out, whispering treachery in his ear; and when Sherlock turns

_"John... what the hell?"_

and gapes in gutted disbelief, Jim closes his eyes. Exhales shakily - _la petite mort_ - and smiles.

And he'd let them go, he would, but there's something in all those little glances and whispered words that sits wrong with Jim; something that sidesteps him altogether, and Jim won't be _ignored_.

But once he's exited, Jim can't get back in. He'd thought the doctor might leave, but he stays like a dog, and when Jim returns to the stage, it's to an audience of not two, but one - one mind, one decision.

One heart, though neither will know it till he's burned it out of them both.

_Auckland, New Zealand, April 2011_

At first she thinks maybe John's divorced. He seems normal and even a bit nondescript, and after her last boyfriend that suits Sarah perfectly.

Of course, it doesn't take her long to figure out that John's got another side, and that side has a name: Sherlock. She likes him well enough in the beginning - when they're trying to figure out the puzzle of the Chinese writing, when he stops treating her like an inconvenient appendage and starts listening to what she has to say. And if he were the other side of anyone but John Watson, Sarah might go on liking him; but, with John, he's always there, even when he isn't. Sherlock Holmes is the chime that goes off at regular intervals on the night John kips on her sofa. He's the insistent ping that announces new mail on the computer John's brought on holiday. He's the click-clack of keys in the middle of the night, the electric glow of the computer screen on John's face after they've had sex, when John thinks she's gone to sleep.

Not only has John never been married, but he's been with few other women, from what he says. He's lovely in bed - a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but generous and affectionate. Still, she can't shake the feeling that only half of him is ever with _her_, and she wonders if he's aware of what he does; if he knows that his eyes only ever travel over her body on their way to his mobile, lying silent on the side table. That he's always got just one ear on their conversation.

That sometimes he talks in his sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_London, September 2011_

The first photographs she receives reveal The Virgin in all his haughty splendour. He's pretty - very pretty - with an icy beauty to rival her own. Even the sheet he wears is draped with a certain Grecian artistry that bespeaks his vanity, and that gives her something to which she may appeal should her own charms inexplicably fail.

But the other photographs... well, those tell a different story altogether. In them, he's soft and smiling, the hard lines of his face gentled, and all for the man who sits beside him. John Watson's not like them, and she thinks it an advantage at first; he's simple where they're subtle, easily baited. But though he can be caught, he can't be made to play her games, and his blunt honesty (_I don't know, maybe_) backs her into a corner where only the same (_yes, you are_) can get her out.

And she doesn't understand why such a man should have a hold over Sherlock Holmes until they're sitting at a table in the far corner of the food court at Jinnah International Airport, huddled quietly over cups of chai. Irene still can't quite believe that Sherlock saved her life. She certainly can't fathom his reasons and says as much.

He smirks and replies, "Adventure," and Irene shakes her head.

"He'll kill you if he finds out," she warns, too shaken to tease.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock says.

"John," Irene replies, and Sherlock meets her eyes for the first time since the rescue.

"Only because I left him behind."

"Why did you?" she asks, and suddenly his hands are dancing over his cup, fingertips tapping at the tabletop; he blinks but doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to; it's written in his face. It's a lark, saving her. Something to do, to distract, to win. But John...

"Does he know?" she continues with a cruel glint of comprehension in her eyes, and Sherlock pushes back from the table abruptly - stands and walks away, towards their gate, away from her.

Irene slowly smiles as she watches him go, feeling more like herself than she has in weeks.

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

_Devon, March 2012_

John's outdoors eating breakfast when Greg sidles up next to him, coffee cup in hand.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asks, looking around.

John doesn't look up from his meal. "He said something about a dog." Then he glances up at Greg, whose eyebrows rise in an unspoken question, and shrugs. "No idea."

Greg sits down on the bench next to John and takes a sip of his coffee. There's something he's been wanting to ask John, but he really doesn't know how to bring it up. And it's not like he needs to know - he just sometimes gets this feeling, like maybe... but, then again, it's none of his business.

Sherlock eventually strides out of the inn, his coat flapping in the breeze like a great bloody bat, and swoops up alongside Greg and John. John glances up, then turns and says to Greg, "There he is. The wanker who spiked my coffee." Sherlock gives a small shrug and rolls his eyes.

"What are friends for?" he says lightly. But Greg sees the moment their eyes meet - sees some shared thing pass between them, sees the light flush that colours Sherlock's pale skin, sees the way John's eyes drop to his nearly empty plate as he smiles to himself.

And even though he's still not sure what they'd call it, Greg knows what it is that he's seen, and it makes him grin.

_London, June 2012_

"This is - are you listening?"

Sherlock's scared, she can tell, and it scares her that someone so in control of himself should be this way.

"Of course I'm listening," Molly says impatiently.

"This is important. If anything should go wrong - anything at all - you're to contact this number -" Sherlock holds up his mobile and Molly scrambles to find a piece of paper to jot down the number on the screen "- and ask for... "

He pauses and looks away to the corner of the darkened room, his eyes darting about as if searching for the answer there. When he alights on it, he gives a grim smile and returns his attention to her. "My arch enemy."

Molly frowns, her mouth screwing up in a small moue. "Your what?"

"My arch enemy. The name's not important; just call this number. Ask for him - use those words. He'll know it's you and that something's happened."

She gives him an efficient little nod, then asks, "What do I tell John?"

And Sherlock suddenly stills. He meets Molly's gaze, and the intensity of it causes her to look away. But he grabs her forearm - grips it until it hurts - and says in a tone that brooks no argument, "That I'm dead. Tell him I'm dead, that you've seen it - _me_ - with your own eyes. You must make him believe it, Molly."

Molly is horrified. She pulls her arm away.

"I can't. He'll be -"

"You _must_," Sherlock growls. "The last time he almost... it's the only way to keep him safe."

She shakes her head. "I can't believe that. It will - don't you know what it will do to him?"

And suddenly, the man standing before her is lost and alone and afraid. He's vulnerable, and it breaks her heart to see it.

"Please, Molly," he says quietly. "Just do as I say. _Please_."

And in the end she does, standing by helplessly as John Watson closes in on himself.

And when she asks, "Are you alright?" she sees him push away the rest of the world with a shuttered expression and the last words she'll hear from his mouth for months to come.

"I'm fine."


	10. Chapter 10

_London, August 2012_

John's not fine, far from it.

The first few weeks following Sherlock's death pass like the period just after he'd been shot, when the world was ashen and empty and John lost in it. He stays away from the people he's called friends; Mike - Greg - even Molly - they remind him of a life that's died with Sherlock, and he doesn't want to suffer their pity and platitudes. They can't fill the hole he's left, and John certainly doesn't want to watch them try.

Eventually, he starts picking up the pieces of his life, trying to fit them back together only to find that the edges have frayed. Locum work at a new surgery distracts him for hours at a time, a pleasant hum that sees him through the walk back to his bedsit. But once inside, the silence always encroaches on his equanimity. He looks around and sees not what's there (precious little, in any case), but what's gone. No strange surprises await him in unexpected places; no sounds, but the ones he makes.

And there's an ache for which John has no name, lurking just below the surface of his consciousness, haunting him in a way his wound never did. It's a tightening behind his sternum at the smell of some restaurant he's passed. A sting in his eyes that he blinks away when the sky is a certain shade of grey. A sickening flutter whenever he looks at the mobile he still carries, though it never chimes these days.

He keeps it all under lock and key, and if the strangers he encounters mistake the circles under his eyes for a night out with the lads, if they miss the tightness of his jaw and the thinness of his lips when he smiles, all the better.

But inevitably there comes a night when the ache is more a pain that makes him wince, and he knows of only one way to make it go away. It's an indulgence he seldom allows himself, because he's seen - too often and far too close - what it does, but tonight it's the only thing short of a tourniquet that will help to stanch the steady bleed of his inconvenient emotions.

John drinks alone - a bottle of Dewar's he's had for years - and he's already three sheets to the wind when he climbs into a cab near midnight. Ten minutes later, he's pounding loudly on Harry's door.

"John!" Harry exclaims at the sight of John standing before her, unsteady on his feet but still, surprisingly, upright. "Do you know what time it is? What are you doing here?"

"'lo, Harry," John says evenly. "Can I come in?"

Harry grabs his forearm and tugs him inside, catching a whiff of the evening's activity as he passes her on his way to the lounge.

"Have you been drinking?" she says, and John, falling to the sofa, gives a small snort.

"I'd have thought that was obvious."

He rests his heavy head on the back of the sofa and drapes an arm over his eyes. Harry goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and when she returns, John sits up and takes his mobile out of his pocket, placing it on the table between them.

"Here. I've been meaning to return this ever since you and Clara got back together." He looks around the room as though only just realising where he is. "Is she here?"

Harry shakes her head. "Gone to her mum's for the weekend. John - what's going on? You don't drink."

John gives a small, mirthless laugh, not meeting his sister's eyes.

"No, I don't, do I?" he says.

Harry frowns. "What's happened, John?"

And this is as far as he wants this conversation to go; but the price for numbing his ceaseless ache is that the alcohol has loosened his tongue.

"You read the papers."

"What, Sherlock Holmes?" John barely holds back a wince at the name. "I know you were friends, but it's been, what, two months now?"

He can feel words rising like bile in his throat, and he's powerless to swallow them back.

"He was my _best_ friend, Harry. You don't just -"

No.

John gives a short shake of his head and looks away.

Harry opens her mouth to say something, but she's cut short by the whistle of the kettle and hurries to the kitchen. John feels himself lose a little more of his footing; it was a terrible idea, coming here. All the things he's held at bay since Sherlock's death - all the things he couldn't tell Ella - threaten to overwhelm him, and there's nowhere to run anymore.

Harry returns, places a steaming cup of tea before John, and sits on the sofa next to him, waiting.

After a moment, John asks abruptly, "Have you ever had a best friend, Harry?"

"Clara," she says, not missing a beat, and John nods knowingly.

"And how did you feel when -" another stubborn shake of his head.

_No._

But Harry, clearly out of her depth, reaches out and places a tentative hand on John's knee. "How did I feel when?" she asks.

"When -" John heaves a sigh. "When you thought she was gone."

"Gutted," she answers instantly. "But that's different. She's -"

And maybe Harry would finish that thought - tell John that Clara is the whole world to her, that she can't imagine life without her, that she'd do anything, _has_ done_everything_, for her - but when she looks up into John's hollow stare, it's clear that it's no different at all.

"John... " she says softly, her eyes widening.

"No," he says, his voice breaking almost imperceptibly. "No."

He blinks once, twice and again in rapid succession.

"Oh, Johnny, you poor sod," Harry says, and John curls into her, clutching at her shirt with both hands and burying his face in her shoulder.

She brings her arms around him, holding him tightly, and lets him cry.


	11. Chapter 11

_Between Bath and London, May 2013_

John, sitting bolt upright in the seat by the window, glances down at Mary beside him. She's nodded off, her head lolling heavily against his shoulder. She looks peaceful - carefree.

He sighs and turns to look out at the spring scenery speeding by.

By any definition, they've had a lovely weekend away - charming bed and breakfast, cosy restaurants, long walks steeped in history. They've stopped to admire the offerings in small shops, paused to take photographs amongst the blooming flowers, held hands down quiet paths.

They've slept together for the first time (though they've been dating for months now), and that, too, is lovely. Mary is deceptively imaginative in bed; she exudes a quiet competence in her day-to-day affairs - practical, in the way his mum always was - and he'd wondered if that would translate to a certain efficiency in the bedroom. But before they've even made it to bed that first night, she's doing things with her hands - with her _mouth_ - that he hasn't felt in years, and it's good, so bloody _good_ that he reciprocates in kind, trailing hands over soft skin and tongue over velvet folds until she's pulling at his hair and coming in his mouth. Her body is warm and welcoming; he sinks into it with a sigh, and in that moment she's _beautiful and he thinks he could love her_.

But the thing is, he doesn't.

It's not that the walks in the park or the little shops of curios or the charming bed and breakfast just aren't 'him'. John's got a streak of sentimentality a mile wide, and he appreciates the quaintness of it all as much as Mary. And it's not that they haven't got things in common - God knows, on paper they're perfect for one another.

It's that there are silences that stretch into awkwardness, and John's known different ones. He's known the electricity of a wayward touch - the exhilaration of being _together_. He's known breathless anticipation and wonder and _passion_. The realisation may have been (too) late, and he may not name it still, but John knows what it was that he had; and maybe it's too much to ask of something so new, and maybe he's lucky to have had it at all, much less expect it again.

But he did have it and he can't unlearn it and he'll never, ever forget, and anything less seems wan and weak in comparison. He likes Mary enough to want it for her, too, but he knows she'll never have it from him.

John hates to be the cause of hurt - _hates_ it - remembers every awful thing he's ever said with a sharp regret that, at this point, far outweighs the initial sting of his words. This will hurt Mary, and he wants, more than anything, to feel for her that way he's felt before. He wants to love her, body and soul, and he even thinks he could convince himself, in time, that he does.

But on those nights when the snow falls softly and there's music in the air, he'll know he's been deceiving them both.

The sound of the train travelling over its tracks is gently hypnotic. John closes his eyes with a sad sigh and gently leans his head against Mary's - one last little intimacy before he says goodbye.

_London, September 2013_

It's the kind of day John loves best - cloudy and dry, a bit of a nip in the air, but not enough to warrant a jacket. He's just stepped out for a bit of air between patients, a quick walk around the block before the Friday afternoon rush.

John turns left down a quiet lane. He's gone only a dozen feet or so beyond the corner when he sees, out of the corner of his eye, the sleek black bonnet of a Jaguar pulling up slowly alongside him. He stills and stares straight ahead; hears the click of an opening door, the soft clap of expensive shoes on pavement. His fists tighten and he takes a step forward. Another. One foot in front of the other, taking him away.

The footsteps behind him quicken until a hand lands lightly on his shoulder, holding him back. John stops dead in his tracks.

"No," he says between gritted teeth, wrenching away.

"Please," replies a voice that's as regretful as the last time John heard it. "John, please - I must speak with you."

John's jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. "I've said everything I will ever have to say to you."

"_John_," it pleads, and he turns - and looks up into a face he's never seen before. Dishevelled hair and a purple bruise encircling one eye. A long, thin cut - perhaps a day old - on the right cheek. A frantic wildness in his eyes that's the antithesis of everything John's come to associate with Mycroft Holmes.

John stares at him in frozen silence.

"What," he eventually asks, "can you possibly have to say to me?"

"There's no time to explain," Mycroft says. "Come with me, please, John. It's a matter of vital importance."

He reaches out to take John's arm, but John snatches it away and takes a step back.

"No. Not until you tell me what's going on."

Mycroft blinks - casts a shrewd glance around them, then leans in close and whispers in John's ear.

"He's alive, and he needs you."


	12. Chapter 12

_Hertfordshire, September 2013_

"I've taken the liberty of arranging a leave of absence for you."

This is the first thing Mycroft's said that's penetrated the haze of confusion and bewilderment clouding John's mind. He has no recollection of how he got into the car, and over the past half hour only smatterings of Mycroft's haughty monologue have been at all intelligible to him.

John blinks and gives a small shake of his head.

"I'm sorry - what? You can't do that."

Mycroft looks over to John with raised eyebrow and a faint smirk on his lips.

"I can, and I have."

Silence fills the space between them, until John clears his throat and asks quietly, "What's wrong? With... him?"

A troubled frown flits over Mycroft's face. Were he able to concentrate on more than the most basic of information, John might notice that there's a singular concern in Mycroft's eyes, born of something more than just his usual meddlesome ways.

"Grazed by a bullet in the arm - a superficial wound, but one which requires attention."

"You don't need me for that."

"No," Mycroft agrees. "He also has significant swelling on his right knee and difficulty walking. As he remains, for all intents and purposes, dead in the eyes of the world, he has not yet been seen by a physician."

"He... " John echoes. His eyes sting; he blinks once, twice, and then he closes them - against Mycroft, against the encroaching madness. "What happened?"

"A confrontation - one that's been coming for some time now, although I was myself apprised of it only yesterday morning. As you can see -" he points to his lacerated face "- I was caught in the crossfire."

"So," John says, a sickening realisation pooling in his gut. "You knew. You... _knew_, and you kept it from me."

Mycroft glances at John, then looks away, out the window.

"I knew. But it was imperative that you believed Sherlock dead."

And there's the fog again, dulling the jagged edges of John's anger. He has an urge to hit Mycroft - hard, and in the face - but it's vague and slips further away with each grasping breath he takes, until he can only respond, "I don't understand."

Mycroft gives John a small smile that might be mistaken for condescension, were it not for the strange gentleness in his eyes.

"I think it best that you hear it from him. Simply put, it's not my story to tell."

A short time later, the sound of gravel crunching under tyres signals the end of their journey. John peers out the window to find a surprisingly modest country house nestled in a hilly embankment, and his heart clenches uncomfortably.

"Has he asked for me?" John says in a quiet, controlled voice.

Mycroft sighs. "He... doesn't know I've come for you. I left him sleeping after administering a powerful analgesic, but I daresay he's awake by now."

"Why me?" John can only whisper now; any louder and other, inconvenient things will escape with his words.

"He needs you," Mycroft replies, almost mournfully.

The car comes to a stop. Mycroft climbs out as John, white fingers gripping the soft leather on which he still sits, takes a deep breath and tries to quell the onslaught of a thousand warring emotions. After a moment, Mycroft bends down and pops his head inside the open door.

"Doctor?" he says; then, softly, "Please."

John gives a curt nod and slides over to the door. They climb the stone steps and enter the house together. The sound of the heavy wood door closing is followed closely by the shatter of porcelain from above, and Mycroft, rolling his eyes, heads up the stairway, John slowly ascending behind him.

"Where the hell have you been?"

The voice - _his_ voice - coming from a room at the top of the stairs stops John dead in his tracks - nearly brings him to his knees. It takes everything - everything - John has not run, though towards the room or away he cannot say. He doesn't understand what's happening - grips the bannister, waits for the choking black fog that envelops him to pass. Just outside the doorway to what must be Sherlock's room, Mycroft casts a glance over his shoulder, a silent question in his arched eyebrow. John closes his eyes and steadies himself, and when he thinks he can move again he gives Mycroft a nod.

Entering the room, Mycroft says loftily, "You are in need of medical attention, and I am just returned from seeking it."

"No!" Sherlock exclaims, a note of alarm in his voice that John has never heard before, and it's that faint echo of fear that propels John forward. "It's not safe, not until we know for sure -"

And John, now standing in the doorway, sees only Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth drops open, and his eyes grow wide. "John... " he says and looks quickly at Mycroft, but inevitably his gaze returns to John and he pales.

Mycroft, glancing from one to the other, gives a deferential little nod and leaves the room.

And there they are, mere feet away from one another but miles from what they were. John still has no idea what to say - has no words, no words that even begin to express the complexity of the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him - and when Sherlock (_too thin by half_) swallows and stammers hoarsely, "John, I -" John cuts him off with a steely, soft-spoken, "Let's have a look at that knee, then."

And John can see the dawning understanding in Sherlock's eyes. They stare silently at one another for a long moment, John willing Sherlock to _let it be_ for now. Then Sherlock blinks, glances down at his leg, and says, "Yes, that's probably a good idea."


	13. Chapter 13

_Hertfordshire, September 2013_

Diagnosis: meniscal tear, moderate  
Treatment, short term: bed rest and elevation of the leg until swelling subsides. Administer acetaminophen as needed  
Treatment, long term: physical therapy and use of assistive device as needed

John has spoken barely ten words to Sherlock in the past two days. He avoids looking into the iridescent eyes that follow his every move - now distant, now doleful - and he keeps his thoughts under lock and key, not only from Sherlock but from himself. He senses, rather than knows, that there's a roiling maelstrom of feelings lurking just beneath his placid surface, and he cannot succumb to it for fear of being swept away.

But on the third night in Mycroft's home, John startles awake with a pounding heart and the certainty - the absolute _certainty_ - that Sherlock is dead.

He throws off the duvet and stands, disoriented in the darkness, then quietly makes his way to the room two doors down from his. John finds Sherlock lying on the bed in a t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms, his blank stare illuminated by curtain-diffused moonlight. He is as pale as he was on that day, and John reaches out the way he did then to grasp Sherlock's wrist in his hand.

This time, it's warm and thrums with a pulse that's probably too rapid, but John doesn't care. It's alive, and that other hand wasn't, and he doesn't understand but he needs to, _now_, so he asks in a voice that's soft with sleep, "How did you do it?"

Sherlock's eyes close and his chest collapses on a sigh.

"Switched the body," he whispers, and the blood drains from John's face - the suck of the tide just before a devastating wave - and he drops heavily to the side of the bed.

"_How_?" John rasps, clutching Sherlock's wrist tight enough to bruise.

Sherlock turns his head and, finally, their eyes meet.

"Does it matter anymore?"

"No," John says. "I suppose it doesn't." But he feels Sherlock's eyes on him, watching him work through a deduction of his own, and he cannot help the small rush of fury that accompanies the realisation when it comes.

"Molly," John says, and Sherlock nods.

"Was it only me, then?" he demands. "Who didn't know? Seems pretty elaborate just to pull one over on me." John drops Sherlock's hand and stands, crossing to the tall windows that overlook Mycroft's property. A rustle of bedding and the quiet rattle of metal on metal tells him that Sherlock has gotten to his feet, but John keeps his eyes fixed on the green-grey grounds below.

"Not just you," Sherlock explains. "Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Everyone but Mycroft and Molly," John turns to see him nearly lost in shadows, leaning heavily on his cane and almost small in a way he's never been before, and it's that uncharacteristic vulnerability that keeps him rooted to the spot when he might walk away. But he hasn't said his piece, not by half, and he takes a step forward, his hands gesturing of their own accord.

"_Why_? Why did you do it?" John swallows. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock is quiet, the space between them charged with the heat of John's anger. After a moment, he says, simply, "Moriarty."

John's head tilts in confusion. He steps forward as though the movement will bring him somehow closer to comprehension, and Sherlock shifts unsteadily on his feet.

"_I'll burn the heart out of you_ - those were his words." Sherlock says, and John nods. "He discovered how." Sherlock gives a small shake of his head. "He always knew."

"Your name, your reputation - yes, I remember. But you sent me away, Sherlock. You made me think - I could have helped. I thought we had a plan -"

"It wasn't my 'reputation', John."

"Then what -" John begins, and Sherlock limps into the light, locking eyes with him. There's desperation there, and pain. Worry... fear and concern, all trained on John, and the force of it hits him like a bullet. "Oh." he says breathlessly. "Oh... God."

"Three guns, three bullets - Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's eyes glitter strangely. "You."

"Sherlock... "

"He would have -" he starts, shaking his head. John walks across the room, takes his hand and pulls him gently down on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath against John's hair but otherwise sits still, allowing this. "If you'd known, if you'd even hinted that it wasn't true... it wouldn't have been me, John, it would have been you."

"So... you were protecting your heart," John says softly, and Sherlock gives a tight nod. "And mine... mine was just collateral damage."

John feels Sherlock stiffen in his arms, but rather than letting go he tightens his embrace, splaying his hands over Sherlock's bony back and resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, determined to tell Sherlock in the only way he knows that it's fine - it's _fine_. That he may not like it, but he understands; that his heart is a small price to pay if it's kept them safe.

Eventually, Sherlock relaxes enough to lean his wan cheek against John's head, to wrap his awkward arms around John's solid frame and hold him close.

"I missed you." John, his voice muffled against Sherlock's arm.

"So much." Sherlock, in a whisper.

And perhaps it's the darkness that allows the tears to come.


	14. Chapter 14

Well, everyone, this is the end of the line. Thank you all so, so much for your kind reviews - I'm far behind in responding to them, but each one has been much appreciated and treasured. I hope you enjoy the conclusion, in which John gets his happy ending. Finally. :)

* * *

_London, December 2013_

After a month and a half of overseeing Sherlock's convalescence, during which time petty skirmishes over diet and physical therapy have threatened, on more than one occasion, to finish the job that jumping off St. Bart's could not, both men are relieved to finally get the news that the last of Moriarty's network has been neutralised and they are free to return to the world of the living.

In retrospect, John's glad to have been on hand when Sherlock appears to Mrs. Hudson for the first time in eighteen months, and he's even gladder that neither he nor she have been up to the task of ridding 221B of Sherlock's things, which turns out to be convenient, as well as having the ancillary effect of rendering the flat all but unleasable in the interim. By the end of October, they are once again ensconced in their old surroundings - and yet, there are differences that strain against the familiar trappings.

It's one thing to have retrospectively believed oneself in love; it's quite another to be living with the object of one's erstwhile affections again in all his infuriating eccentricity - his experiments, his arrogance, his moods. The dichotomy between the superlative Sherlock of John's bereaved imagination and the stroppy one who lies brooding on the sofa for hours on end is stark, and it takes John time to reconcile the two.

But there comes a day when Sherlock, on his first case for Lestrade since his 'death', turns to John with eyes alight from the thrill of the game, and it's all John can do to remain upright. Something _shifts_ in that moment - some indefinable thing that isn't new, but a rewriting of something John's felt for years - and he realises in that moment that what he'd felt before couldn't possibly have been love, because it wasn't _this_. This is more - everything - and it leaves John so plainly stunned that Sherlock tilts his head, fawn-like, and asks, "Are you all right?"

And John stares for a long, pregnant moment - at Sherlock's dark curls, his long fingers, his slender neck - then chokes out, "Fine. I'm fine. It was just -"

But Sherlock, assured of John's fineness, is off again, a whirl of coat and collar and splendidness that makes John reach behind him for a nearby chair into which he unceremoniously collapses. He catches the quizzical glance Lestrade gives them both out the corner of his eye, and he answers its accompanying smirk with a flush and a muttered "Shut up" that leaves Greg laughing.

Last Christmas, John had sat alone at his bedsit nursing a bottle of Scotland's finest; this year, there's a cosy fire and fairy lights and friends, and at one point John has to excuse himself, retreat to his bedroom, and sit on the side of his bed swiping at tears that will come despite himself. It shouldn't have been possible, he thinks - then gives a small laugh. Of _course_ it's possible - it's Sherlock, who rewrites the laws of nature itself just to suit his whims.

A soft knock sounds on John's door, and Sherlock sticks his head inside.

"Everything all right?" he asks, his shrewd gaze taking in John's reddened eyes, but John gives a short nod.

"Fine. Fine," he says with a tight smile, and Sherlock, after a moment, nods and closes the door. It's something, John thinks, that Sherlock would even notice he'd gone; two years ago, he wouldn't have. John has no idea of Sherlock's feelings towards him, and he's certainly not prepared to ask, so he drinks in these small gestures that mean so much more than they seem - waters his own feelings with them and helplessly watches them grow.

A few minutes later, John hears the merry notes of "I Saw Three Ships" come wafting up from the lounge - for Molly, no doubt, looking pretty and fresh and more relaxed than John's ever seen her before. He smiles to himself and rejoins the party; but when their guests have gone and it's just John and Sherlock again, John dims the lights and lets the firelight cast a warm, shadowy glow on the room. He settles into his (much-missed) armchair, leans his head back, and smiles to himself. There's a lingering scent of gingerbread in the air - courtesy of their not-your-housekeeper - and pine from the sprigs on the mantle that Sherlock tolerates with many a long-suffering sigh.

It's a comfortable quiet into which seeps a melancholy note that makes John open his eyes. He finds Sherlock standing by the window, violin in hand, and looking down at him with purposeful eyes. The white of the falling snow outside casts a cold hue over him - he is black and blue, grey and white. Alone, separate, and the sounds that come from his violin are like nothing John's ever heard him play before. Where it usually storms and soars and occasionally sings, now it weeps - a low cry of sorrow and regret meant just for John, who thinks he can hear love in Sherlock's wordless lament.

With pounding heart and trembling hands, John stands and crosses to Sherlock, who leaves off on a broken note and turns an apprehensive face to his friend. John gently takes the violin from Sherlock, placing it carefully back in its case, then grasps his hand and leads him to his own chair across from John's. Sherlock sits, looking wide-eyed up at John as he reaches out to slide his fingers lightly down Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes close with the stroke, and he leans into the touch, covering John's hand with his own, nuzzling calloused fingers against his stubbled cheek. John sinks to his knees between Sherlock's legs, snaking a hand around Sherlock's neck and burying his fingers into the lush crop of curls at the nape, pulling Sherlock close.

Their first kiss is tentative - a dry brush of lips from which they pull back, each studying the other. Then John licks his lips; a reflex, but one which serves him well as Sherlock smirks wryly and reaches out to bring John back. _This_ kiss is better, a light nibbling of Sherlock's lower lip joined by a coaxing tongue that teases Sherlock's willing lips apart. Soft pants, high gasps, and low moans echo in the quiet as John reaches up to undo a button - then another - slipping his hands inside cool cotton and over smooth skin. He slides the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, then brings his lips to Sherlock's long, craning neck, his warm breath raising goose bumps over the sensitive flesh as leans close and suckles there.

Sherlock clutches the wool of John's jumper, sliding forward slightly in his leather chair as he pulls John forward. He takes John's face in his hands, his eyes devouring the utterly uncommon sight of John's swollen lips and dilated pupils, and he lunges, consuming John with a hunger that bides by no rules but its own. And this, _this_ is what John has wanted for so long - to overwhelm and be overwhelmed. To touch and feel, both inside and out; to look - to be seen and known. To love, to be loved, despite flaws and foibles; and he does, he loves Sherlock, who's _alive_ when he shouldn't be, brilliant and beautiful and like nothing John's ever known.

John laughs breathlessly and Sherlock pulls back, a hint of hurt lurking on the edge of his expression; but John shakes his head with a soft smile, climbs to his feet and gently pushes Sherlock back, straddling his lap to bring the hard flesh still trapped inside his jeans into contact with that just barely hidden away within Sherlock's Spencer Hart trousers. Sherlock hisses; his head falls back - his eyes close - and John uses this momentary incoherence to his advantage, pulling his own jumper and t-shirt over his head, then leaning forward to bring his mouth to the soft flesh above Sherlock's sternum. He's always liked the feel of skin against skin, but until now it's been his hard planes against the soft breasts of a woman. This is different - new - and as Sherlock regains enough of his composure to slide his arms around John's waist and up his back, as John lets go of a lifetime of self-loathing and surrenders himself to the sheer _want_ that suffuses his body, he realises how quickly it could become an addiction.

Fingers fumble at their zips, just enough to buy some relief - to bring them that much closer, though they're both too far gone to last very long. Sherlock's fingers hook into the belt loops of John's jeans and he mindlessly grinds against him again and again, until their sighs become pants become heaving gasps, and they cling to one another as climax overtakes first one, and then the other.

John collapses against Sherlock's chest, fighting to regain both his breath and his dignity; Sherlock is still beneath him. A fleeting terror flits through John's racing mind - that they've gone too far, that something delicate between them has been wrecked and ruined. He's close to a kind of aching regret he hasn't felt in years when he hears Sherlock sigh into his hair - feels the gossamer lightness of the kiss Sherlock brushes against his shoulder, thrills at the possessive tightening of Sherlock's sinewy arms around his waist.

And they sit like this for a time, as the world carefully rearranges itself around them, and when John sits up and slides off Sherlock's lap and onto the floor, Sherlock leans forward - his tousled curls deliciously debauched - and places a gentle kiss on John's forehead. John slides a thumb over Sherlock's lips.

"It's only ever been you," Sherlock says softly, his eyes never leaving John's.

John smiles, for once - finally - at peace with himself.

"Sherlock," he whispers.

_Coda: London, December 2002_

It's another tiresome night spent out on the streets, but what else has he to do? Mycroft, the prat, has told him, _'in no uncertain terms'_, that he's to be back no later than ten o'clock, and that's simply rubbish. He'll do what he likes, and what he likes is to impress the masses with his feats of deduction. It's wasted on this lot, of course; he can see straight through the grasping desperation of lipstick and mascara, short skirts and tight blouses, and he knows that, to them, he's little more than an amusing boy with a few stunts up his sleeve. But, while it leaves him cold, there's a part of him that soaks up the small squeals of delight the girls give as he explains that the bartender owes fifty quid to his bookie, and he needs to pay it back within the week or there'll be hell to pay; that the girl in the corner with the furtive glance is having an affair with her married professor; that the plumpish bloke in the checked shirt comes from Manchester and is studying to be a doctor.

They clap and giggle, and he takes a sip of water and a drag of his cigarette. He's just about to move on to his next hapless target when he notices the friend of the fat fellow looking at him. He's a nondescript sort - plain in his jumper and corduroy trousers, hair the colour of ripened wheat - but for a fleeting moment he _sees_ Sherlock in a way people seldom do. There's a flash of appreciation in his eyes, and for a long, lingering moment it holds Sherlock hostage. Then he laughs - not in mockery, but Sherlock's eyes narrow all the same, and, chastened, he turns back towards his friend.

And suddenly this is just so cheap and pointless. Sherlock can be better, _wants_ to be better for someone like that, who might see through his bravado and understand that it overlays a world of hurt and benign neglect. Someone who might realise that there's something more than parlour tricks to him.

And when, years later, they finally come face to face in the company of their mutual friend, Sherlock knows that John Watson is the one who saw him - the one who will always see him - and he surrenders a little bit of his heart to John's keeping, quite unbeknownst to himself.


End file.
